


This Is "I Can't Stand You"

by beastofthesky



Category: Assassin's Creed
Genre: Character-centric, M/M, POV Second Person, introspective
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-05-27
Updated: 2012-05-27
Packaged: 2017-11-06 02:24:01
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 619
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/413671
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/beastofthesky/pseuds/beastofthesky
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Title taken from No, It Isn't by +44.</p></blockquote>





	This Is "I Can't Stand You"

Your name is Malik Al-Sayf, and you hate him.

You hate Altaïr Ibn-La’Ahad.

 

You hate the way he talks to you, the arrogance in his words. The way he demands information, instead of asking for it. His low, even voice makes you want to claw at your ears.

You hate the way he walks, the way he _swaggers_. An Assassin is supposed to move inconspicuously and blend in. Altaïr _stalks_ , swinging his shoulders arrogantly, walking like a king and not the humble man he should be. He is the picture of arrogance and you hate it.

You hate the way your stomach drops when he practically falls into your bureau, white robes dyed red and the bells of Jerusalem tolling his name. When he grabs the front of your robes just before passing out at your feet, something roars in your head. There’s a crimson smear on your chest; your hand slowly becomes stained with his blood as you do your best to clean and wrap his numerous wounds. His eyes are slits; he’s close to unconsciousness.

His lips move, just barely, but there’s no sound. You hope it’s not a fever-delirium setting in. There’s a faint, white scar cutting vertically across his lips. The urge to touch it rises, inexplicably, and you viciously shove it away. His deep, gold-brown eyes close.

You allow yourself to collapse at last, satisfied with your work. The feeling of a job well done purrs in your chest, amid something else that doesn’t quite have a name. Your vision blurs. There’s a bit of rug underneath you, though, naturally, Altair’s beaten body is taking up most of it.

You pull a cushion under your head and your eyes droop shut the second your head hits cloth. You hate falling asleep listening to his even breaths, hate feeling the warmth of his body.

You hate opening your eyes to see Altaïr’s blade hand inches from your nose, early morning sunlight casting long shadows on his bare skin. His soft snores make you want to strangle him. You find yourself frozen as he murmurs something in his sleep; his hand twitches and brushes against your hair. Something is caught in your throat. You move away as fast as you can, and busy yourself with the map. You don’t like this feeling in your chest.

You hate the relief that washes over you when Altaïr groans and slowly stands up, long after noon has passed. He tells you he thought he was going to die, and you hate hearing the appreciation in his voice. You bark at him, reprimanding him for his recklessness and stupidity. He _should_ have died. Your feet carry you towards him as he grabs the side of the counter for support.

You hate how close you’re getting to him.

You hate the noise of surprise he makes when you shove him against the wall.

You hate feeling his stubble when you roughly press your mouth to his, and you hate it even more when his hands wind themselves into your robes, jerking you closer. You hate his fingers, digging into your back, hate how it’s affecting you in ways it shouldn’t. You hate the way he opens his mouth to the kiss and makes a quiet noise that turns all of your skin to gooseflesh.

In a whirl of robes and flesh the tables are turned; the bureau wall is cool against your back and Altair’s mouth is warm, tongue and teeth dancing across the scars on your neck. Your hand curls into his sandy-brown hair. You hate the desperation evident in every touch.

You hate wanting this, and you hate knowing that you’ve wanted it for ages.

You hate Altaïr Ibn-La’Ahad.

**Author's Note:**

> Title taken from No, It Isn't by +44.


End file.
